


The Tale of Amyr the Bard!  Or, a Love Story of Unusual Lovers

by DizzIzzi



Category: Baldur's Gate, Baldur's Gate: Siege of Dragonspear, Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Arachnophobia, Baldur's Gate Enhanced Edition, Baldur's Gate: Siege of Dragonspear - Freeform, Bisexual Female Character, But it's Forgotten Realms so that means a lot less than you'd think, Drama, Drow, Dungeons and Dragons!, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Emotional Baggage, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Giant Spiders, Hurt/Comfort, I hate spiders, Lesbian Character of Color, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot Twists, Psychological Trauma, Queer Themes, Rating May Change, Some inspiration taken from source material, Spiders, Unrequited Love, Violence, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-10-28 18:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17792894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzIzzi/pseuds/DizzIzzi
Summary: "The stories of the Baalspawn and of Viconia DeVir are well known, famous one might say, but less considered is the tale of Amyr and Viconia.  Two lonely souls, brought together by happenstance and fate, seeking to understand the world around them and trying not to die in the process.  Viconia may reject Drow culture to the point of revulsion, but that doesn't mean she can't find it in her heart to love another woman—especially when that one is as adorkable as Amyr."Vingettes of an unlikely friendship and romance between two very different people taking place throughout a journey to Godhood.





	1. A Meeting of the Minds

**Author's Note:**

> I love D&D. I love Balder's Gate. The first ever video game I actually played myself was Baldur's Gate: Dark Alliance for the PS2, I've been neck deep in this since I was five. With the release of the Enhanced Editions for both Baldur's Gate 1 and 2 we got new characters and, equally as important to me, new romances. For the first time ever in the Baldur's Gate series we have lesbian, bisexual, and homosexual romance options along with (to my knowledge) the first ever transgender character in the series. This is people today going back to the progenitor of Bioware-style romances and Queering the Text to modern standards, that's something I'm passionate about bringing more of into this world. I'm simply riffing on that concept and using a character I have a lot of affection for as my bisexual love interest (even if she's canonically straight).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Actors take to the stage for the first time.  
> The scene is set and first impressions bungled  
> What is one hopeless romantic in the face  
> of contention?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone would like to request a final party lineup for Baldur's Gate 2 and/or Throne of Baal, now's the time.  
> The only two slots taken are Charname and Viconia.
> 
> Enjoy.

  Amyr had found the woman in the woods with only the clothes on her back and a mace in her hand.  The gray elf had gotten on the wrong side of the local law somehow and had some armored thug with a badge between her and freedom when Amyr and her companions blundered in.  She had reacted first, not even questioning the pair, and leapt to put her shabby long knife between the victim and her grisly fate. The lawman’s axe lodged itself in Amyr’s shoulder, of course, but her foolish act had done the trick—she saved the mysterious woman, Viconia’s, life.  Amyr insisted the wayward drow return with her to what the human woman called “my base of operations!” Something Viconia was hesitant to accept until the prospect of a warm bed—free of charge—was offered. 

  The leader of this crew of adventurers was closer to Viconia’s petite height than most humans, her skin halfway in color between her “sister” Imoen and the rich wooden table Viconia now sat at.   The ashen-skinned priestess hid in the shadows of the well-lit and comforting common room—she felt out of place, like a deer in a walled city, and the hateful looks from one or two of the patrons did not help.  The foaming flagon of ale that appeared before her stank—human spirits always smelt and tasted like pigsty to her no matter how “good” the brew was. Its owner knew nothing of this, although the more Viconia watched the more she assumed Amyr wouldn’t care either way.  “Salutations!” Amyr said “I bring drinks.” 

    “How very… kind of you.  What do you want?”

        “Hmm…”  The woman seemed to consider it for a moment “To get to know you a bit better I suppose.  I’ve always loved a good mystery and you are certainly one I’m interested in solving.” Viconia’s face turned to bitter disdain

    “You presume much  _ rivvil _ .  I will not open like a book simply because your petty desire for it strikes your fancy at this moment.  Go back to your foolish companions and leave me in peace.”

 

  Amyr blinked, surprised at such a vitriolic dismissal, and for a few moments was silent, unsure of what to do or say next.  After some thought she excused herself and moved away mutely, back to the rest of the party, to nurse her beer amongst the background noise of the tavern.  No one saw the brief look of disgust that crossed the pale drow’s face, even she was unaware of it—her mind caught up on the impetus of the human’s brazen prying.  Viconia was not present for the heated discussions Amyr had with her companions—the husband and wife team Jaheira and Khalid—but she assumed the two, being descended from surface elves, were actively wishing to kill her like all of their ilk did. 

  Viconia hated all of this—the sunlight, the prying, the stupid rules, the unjustified hate—all she wanted was to live in peace, maybe even with some quiet, far away from the wretched Underdark.  No matter where she turned since fleeing her home, the surface held nothing but mistrust for her even though she had done nothing to deserve it. When the party reconvened the next morning a tangible distance had formed between their already fragile alliance, even other patrons could see it.  Despite this palpable tension the quintet departed from the castle turned inn the next morning, bound for some human settlement to the south that Viconia could care less about. The party traveled in relative silence for the day, Imoen’s humming being the only noise aside from the wildlife for hours on end, and it drove Amyr mad.  She knew there was a problem, she knew how to solve it even, but at the same time human’s gut told her that simply bringing it out into the open would not bring this to a satisfactory close any sooner. Life outside the walls of Candlekeep was so much more challenging than Amyr had expected.

  The party continued in the same tense silence well into the night, making camp just shy of the city of Beregost.  Watches were arranged and a fire coaxed to life—the sudden brilliance momentarily blinding Viconia as it sprung into roaring existence after she had spent so long in the calming dark.  After their meals were consumed Amyr drew off from the rest of them into a dark corner of the clearing they inhabited. Viconia spied something in Amyr’s grasp as she made for the solitude of darkness—a rough-bound journal made with loose pages and careful, if amateur, design.  A wickedly delicious thought played through the drow’s mind 

_     “I should pry into her personal life like she tried to with mine...” _

 

  Praying to Shar, patron of darkness and secrets, the Goddess draped her cloak upon the priestess’s shoulders, making her one with the flickering shadows.  With such protection the Drow crept towards the party’s leader fearlessly, nothing would be a match for such a guise in Viconia’s opinion. Amyr was writing—scratching really—in her journal and Viconia moved to get a better look.  It was an account of the day’s events, dated and everything despite the horrendous script, and not the personal rantings of some repressed fool. As the woman wrote Viconia began to grow bored—this was not the confirmation of her nagging fears she was expecting—but just as she moved to tear her eyes away something caught her attention:

_     “...I am at a loss for what to do, so I pose to you a question:  How does one apologize to someone who thinks the worst of any interaction for wanting to get to know them?  To actually sit down and learn what it is like to be them, to have lived their life and see the world as they do.” _

 

  This woman puzzled Viconia just as much as Viconia puzzled the young human.  To have someone want nothing more than to understand her—not to assess weaknesses, exploit chinks in her carefully crafted persona or to try and curry favor—her life experiences until then had not prepared her for someone like Amyr.  With much more to chew on than when she ventured out, Viconia slithered back into the firelight and visibility. The half-elven Druid made no comment nor any clue that she noticed the Drow disappear and return just before Amyr did—or that the two had gone off in the same direction.

  In fact, nothing came of it until days afterwards as the group once again traipsed through the forests of the Sword Coast, this time in search of a misplaced “Wych” at the behest of a rather intense bald man with tattoos and a hamster.  As dinner was being prepared by the boisterous client Amyr approached the drow seated towards the edge of camp. The young woman cleared her throat, either to prepare herself or try and politely gain Viconia’s attention, the obsidian eyes of the drow turned to face the human’s emerald ones.

    “I-um…  I just want to apologize, for a few days ago.  I realize I pried into something that you weren’t willing to talk about and I’m sorry, I’ll do my best to be more respectful of your wishes in the future.”  The drow woman blinked a few times, rapid and uncomprehending, before her words lined themselves up in her mouth.

        “I see.  Well it is understandable, you are only curious.  I suppose if you were to ask again sometime I  _ might _ acquiesce to your request…  I see there is no malice in your questioning after all.”  Amyr had enough experience with Viconia to have at least a little insight into how the alien woman functioned. 

    “Alright then, I’ll have to do that sometime.  When would you suggest the best time to be to ask such questions?”

        “Not in the middle of a crowded inn?  Perhaps you would be wise to come find me when I am alone and unoccupied.”

    “Would now be a good time?”  The question was tentative, testing the waters.

        “No.”

 

  She got no more out of Viconia that night and before long stories became readily traded between the errant guardian, Imoen, and Amyr over scrumptious food.  Everyone not on watch fell asleep soon after—they had a long day behind them and an even longer one ahead of them. Neither Viconia or Amyr dreamt of pleasant things, only of evils past and future that haunted each of them differently.  By the morning such nightmares were forgotten, the new day’s mysteries awaiting the two with sharp teeth and bated breath. It would not be the last of such sleepless nights the two would share—however distantly—under the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter:  
> "Fears are exposed, tangled in the spider's web. One woman reaches out to another to soothe a broken soul and sets forth on the long path of healing. A friendship's embers have been lit and begin to smolder."
> 
> Current associates:  
> Imoen  
> Jaheira & Khalid  
> Viconia  
> Minsc & Dynaheir  
>    
> (For those of you wondering, yes, Edwin is coming. He knows where you hid the Nether Scroll and he's coming for you...)


	2. Where Monsters Tred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Actors search for answers  
> Finding truths to a different mystery  
> One's wounds are seldom healed  
> by only good intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giant spiders are bloody creepy. I wish to shout out Dragon Age: Origins and Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim for making them haunt my entire existence with their massive, unsettling gazes and cruel intentions. I tried not to put a lot of horrifying details about said spiders in but if it does gross you out, I apologize. I love writing Horror, even if it scares me, so scenes like this will appear at least two more times in the future.
> 
> Enjoy

  Viconia hated the Cloakwood forest, even if it was nice and dark.  The six of them—Amyr their naive leader, Imoen her chatty sister, Jaheira the grumpy armored Druid, her husband Khalid, the Warpriest of Tempus Branwen, and Viconia the pale Sharran priestess—had discovered, in the course of their investigations, the hidden fortress of the bandits plaguing Baldur’s Gate and Amyr had decided they would smoke them out, alone.   They made a motley crew, a patchwork of different armors and colors which was united by even more diverse reasons—they tended to turn a few heads when around civilization. The party had traveled for the better part of a day into the forest when they came upon a boy, not yet sixteen summers, crying beside a stream.

    “What ails you child?”  Said Amyr, her voice filled with immediate empathy and concern.

        “M-my brother h-he…  O-o-our home has become infested by-by s-sp-s-spiders and we wanted to k-k-kill them b-b-b-b-b…”  He broke down into incoherent sobbing. None of them noticed Viconia shuddering at the mention of arachnids.

    “Maybe if we find your brother, would you let us keep the sword?  We could really use it.” The boy stared up, hope shining in his eyes

        “R-really?  Y-you’d find him for me?”  He began to cry anew “Oh thank you!  Thank you thank you thank you!”

 

  Their path decided, the party ventured into the tangle of web and bush with a new purpose—to rescue or reclaim a lost brother.  Viconia had managed to keep her composure throughout the trek, albeit with difficulty, but upon seeing the giant dome of encrusted webbing sitting before her like a gigantic temple she trembled in fear.  Had she known that she would encounter _this_ upon her journey she would never have agreed to come—not that it mattered, it was a long, dangerous road back to civilization.  Taking up the rear, the drow woman edged her way trepidatiously into the newly-opened egg, nerves aflame with poison and bile. The sight that greeted the group of adventurers was nightmare inducing.

  The walls were chittering, a hundred-thousand eyes glittering at them in the dusk as mandibles clicked and lusted for food.  In the center was a woman—or at least what might have been a woman—her obese, voluptuous form splayed out in the center of a vast web.  Viconia screamed, crumpled to the floor in abject terror as her eyes, sightless in their madness, bulged to the size of saucers and her hands dropped everything to string themselves through her silver hair.  The spider-lady trained beady, abyssal eyes on the adventurers and croaked “Kill the meat, my pets.” The party scrambled to defend themselves—to put up a perimeter against the encroaching horde—but Amyr dove immediately to Viconia’s side and wrapped her arms protectively, almost motherly, around the drow’s trembling shoulders.  She pleaded with the entity controlling the spiders.

    “H-hey wait! M-meat?  No we’re not meat we’ve…  Wait! We’ve come to benefit from your wisdom! Yeah.”  

        “You’ve come here to learn from my infinite wisssssdom?  Ssssspeak quickly.”

 

  The spider lady seemed immensely intrigued and flattered, the spiders clicking to a halt at her unheard command.  Amyr’s silver tongue bought them time, precious seconds, to prepare. Her mind raced, gears moving and clicking together in frantic attempts to stall the inevitable.  Her party girded themselves with potions and whispered spells as the bard haltingly spoke.

    “Yes! We-um… We wish to learn how it was that you came to live in this place?”  The grotesque woman reeled her head back and wailed

        “I am cursssssed!  The archmage, my dear Jon, cursed me for indignities done to him and his wife by my hand…”  Something like pain seemed to cross her face briefly before being replaced with venom “I loved him, but now I hate him as I hate you and everything!  Spiderssssss, kill them all.”

 

  Viconia began screaming, desperately pushing against Amyr's comforting grasp to flee from everything and everyone—to crawl into herself where no one could follow, not even the Gods.  Desperate, Amyr did the only thing she could think of to steady her fellows in their time of need, she began to sing. It was an old song—pulled from the depths of Candlekeep where she spent her youth croaking her way through dusty tomes and crackling parchment—and something in her voice resonated with her compatriots, stilled and focused their minds on the job in front of them.  The terror that had woven its way into everyone's’ minds after Viconia panicked began to unravel into cohesive movement. Amyr held the stricken woman in her arms as everyone else desperately tried to fend off the encroaching spiders.

  Somehow, they survived.  Despite the odds everyone made it through the encounter alive, although very much mentally and emotionally disturbed.  It was a long, grueling fight, wave after wave of eight-legged monstrosities descending upon their position. Their saving grace was pure happenstance—the party had not gone more than ten steps from the exit so the horde was without an avenue of attack to their vulnerable rear.  The three frontline fighters—Jaheira, Khalid, and Branwen—put up a valiant defensive wall against the spiders, their semicircle allowing each enough room to strike without easily letting foes through. Imoen held up the back, picking off any target she could get a clean shot at, waiting for the right moment.

  The jubilant thief let loose an arrow, it’s aim true, with the spider-queen its target.  The immobile mistress was impaled upon the tip of that arrow—the grotesque, unfortunate woman writhing and cursing as her life dripped out her punctured eye, the final gasp did not come swiftly.  Upon their queen’s death the spiders lost cohesion, a contingent even fled deep into the forest rather than fight their eradicators. Khalid found the sword they sought—a massive pale blade hidden under the cocooned body of the boy they were looking for—and swung it wildly at the remaining spiders, cutting down any he could catch with its edges.  The other two combatants called down the wrath of Nature and of the Gods to smite any in their path, it became a sticky bloodbath.

  The party kept the sword, the boy wanted nothing to do with it after his brother’s corpse was returned, and at the insistence of Amyr they returned to the Friendly Arm Inn.  Viconia was silent the entire trip, whatever had gone through her mind in those tense minutes in the spider’s den broke her somehow. She walked when bidden but refused to utter a word or raise her mace to fight, needing to be protected at all times during the exhausting trip back to safety.  With the thick walls safely around them, the party burst in to the inn with the most defeated air they had carried thus far.

  Everyone split off—Khalid and Jaheira to their quarters, Branwen to douse her troubles in ale, and Imoen with her in a desperate attempt to find something else to think about—all except for Viconia and Amyr.  Amyr needed a bath, one with steam and heat and privacy, and the drow could certainly use one as well after what she went through. The human dragged the listless priestess towards the inn’s small bathhouse, receiving neither resistance nor acknowledgement from Viconia.  Now fully stripped, Amyr shepherded her charge into the steaming water—for some reason Amyr could not fathom her eyes became drawn to the other woman’s naked, enticing flesh, she grew flushed in solitary embarrassment. To her delight, once Viconia’s chest touched the heated bath the pale woman jumped as if slapped and whipped her head about viciously.  Her eyes were filled with unbridled panic and terror which dispelled any joy and brought a familiar tightness to Amyr’s chest.

    “No!  Don’t!”

        “Shhhhh.  Shh shh shhh”  Amyr cooed “It’s alright, you’re safe.  Nothing will harm you, I’m here…”

 

  She draped her arms around the flailing woman in a tight embrace, she prayed that this would get through the web of terror Viconia was ensnared in.  To the bard’s great relief her voice reassured Viconia’s slowly reforming mind that she was safe. Tearless sobs wracked the delicate drow’s body, deep rasping breaths like she was being crushed by some invisible weight—her pain filling up the whole room like a sauna.  They stayed like this for an eternity, Amyr slowly running her fingers through the tangled web of the priestess’s hair as she crooned quietly to her. Finally the wounded woman spoke “Thank you.”

    “Would now be a good time to ask why you were so scared?”  VIconia quailed at the thought

        “I… No, it is not.  Just… know it has to do with why I am on the surface.”  It dawned on Amyr that she knew little of Drow culture, something she felt she should rectify and soon.  

    “Ok then, would you perhaps like to hear a little about me?  To take your mind off it.” The two women’s eyes met.

        “Only if you get off of me.”  The human sheepishly disentangled herself from the sour drow.

    “Alright, how about my family.  I know nothing of my birth father but my foster father, Gorion, did tell me some about my mother.  She was a woman from Silverymoon—you know of Silverymoon, yes? It’s a…”

 

  The bard talked through the entire bath and after a long time the two of them said their goodnights and retired to their own beds, the moon watching over them from behind their curtains.  It was a first, the beginnings of sharing stories about their pasts—admitting there were scars that needed healing. In time the two would share all this and more, but not then. That night all either of them did was fall into a blessedly dreamless sleep—the first in several, fitful nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter:  
> "Dear readers, pardon my sin, I have disrupted the natural order of all things. Now I must go and howl at the moon, so bright and radiant, as penance. Could anyone accept such a monster for who they are?"
> 
> Current associates:  
> Imoen  
> Jaheira & Khalid  
> Viconia  
> Minsc & Dynaheir  
> Branwen  
> Dorn
> 
> (Be careful what you do, Boo is watching you...)


	3. Becoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terrible storms have beset our Actors  
> Swept hither and thither across the stage  
> A secret's damn'd stronger souls  
> than hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! Welcome! This chapter has some slightly disturbing descriptions of violence and death. Not really gratuitous but it does have some details.
> 
> Enjoy

  Amyr lay within the boat, sick with fever.  It had been a tenday since the party’s departure from that accursed isle yet still its ghost haunted her.  Viconia was worried—though she refused to show or acknowledge it—and as the burly bald human, Minsc, manned the sail with practiced ease she pretended to sleep.  The young human woman lay across Imoen’s lap—the bard’s sister fast asleep after two whole days of constant worrying.  It was all Amyr’s fault, Viconia reasoned, for thinking a high seas treasure hunt was a grand idea.  It was also her fault for taking Viconia along with them. Now here the six of them were; hungry, cold, exhausted, having just survived a cursed isle of lycanthropes and now their leader had fallen sick with something beyond the drow’s knowledge.  The fact that they had also left the vile beasts to breed instead of slaughtering the lot of them made Viconia’s blood boil.

  Amyr lay, sickly and silent, as they sailed for home—her face wan and pale under the twinkling moonlight. Viconia thought she saw something _feral_ in her fitful features.  Little changed as they road the winds to Baldur’s Gate until, a day before sighting land, Amyr surfaced from her trance.  Her complexion was still worrying to the drow but Amyr moved with the same strength she had before, the same purpose of step that marked her as their leader. Her companions all breathed out a sigh of relief, they had truly made it out alive.  With Amyr returned to the party, she quickly decided to sail for Ulgoth’s Beard to deliver the tale of their adventure to the person who started it—Mendas of Waterdeep.  The night before arriving Viconia had a horrible dream, she was being hunted by the terrible wolves through the starry night, their howls so vivid as to be real and their iridescent eyes always in the corner of her eye—watching, waiting for her to tire and the feast to begin.  She had to shake herself the next morning to force the nightmare visions away from her waking thoughts.

  Quietly sailing into port at Ulgoth’s Beard they were met by a strange man,  tall and lanky, with a long mane cropped at the shoulder by inexperienced hands.  His toothy grin should have been the party’s first sign that something was amiss, but none of them noticed as he congratulated them and brought the group into his master’s home.  Mendas—now revealed to be Selaad, the chieftain of that terrible, werewolf infested isle—was furious they had returned, it seemed his plan did not involve them past getting the map to his home.  As he ranted at them Amyr snarled—a deep, guttural rumble invoking for Viconia the image of hungry wolves in the deep snow—and struck the raving man-wolf with a punch so fierce he was sent sprawling to the floor of his house.

    “How dare you!”  The angry woman seethed “You cared _nothing_ about our lives!  All this… This _farce_ was so you could get your wife?! Well, she’s dead.  No matter how much I tried to reason with her she refused to listen, refused to work with me, and now she’s dead because YOU didn’t want to go there yourself!”  Selaad transformed then and there, leaping upon Amyr like a rabid dog.

        “How dare YOU!”  His voice brought down into near subharmonic growls and snarls “You beasts should never have survived!  You killed my _wife_ damn you!”  He howled, begging, to the absent moon.  “You shall PAY!”

 

  His claws met her chest and ripped through the chain shirt she wore, raked his nails through the tender skin below, cutting furrows like a bestial plow.  Her cry of agony was lost within the din of combat as the two newly transformed werewolves came to blows with the hardened adventurers. Minsc tussled with the apprentice as his charge, Dynaheir, called forth arrows of magic to impale themselves into Selaad’s furry back.  Viconia whispered to her Goddess, imploring Shar to imbue her servant with divine weapons and the strength to slay such abominations—something the Nightdancer was all too willing to grant. Tendrils of shadow fed themselves into the drows muscles, bouying them with power unobtainable by any other means, as the same shadows wrapped themselves around her hammer and encased it in their inky black.  She faced the giant shapeshifter—clawing at the defenseless bard below him—and charged.

  Imbued with divine strength, her feet pounded with the force of giants towards the chief werewolf as a cry of frustration and anger fell from her sneering lips.  Her hammer connected with Selaad’s chiseled jaw, their eyes met for a moment and her mind, unbidden, thought _“He would be handsome if he were not so repugnant._ ” She did not have the time to purge such thoughts from her mind as the infused hammer impacted with a satisfying _Crack_ squarely on his jaw.  Selaad’s brutish, muscular body was unmoving, even though his head was carried to the side by Viconia’s blow.  Anger turned to fear in her heart as the great beast turned greedy, golden eyes to the drow priestess. Selaad lunged for her head, looking to crush Viconia’s fragile skull between his pincer jaws but she pulled back, shield raised to connect with his jaw and cover the angle of attack.

  Both yowled in pain as the force rippled through each other’s bodies and Viconia’s mind began to race in the desperate hope of finding a way to kill her opponent—to somehow come out of this fight alive if she was unable to triumph over him.  Somehow, thankfully, she didn’t have to. As the wolf man lunged at her with his pointy teeth something—or rather someone—tripped the snarling beast, sending him crashing face first into the wood floor.  The sound of blood rang in Viconia’s ears as she saw the glint of silver plunge into Selaad’s back. Clever, resourceful Imoen had gone unnoticed since the start of battle—even by her teammates—and played their foes right into her lap.  Her silver dagger reached out, begging to sink itself into the meaty flesh of the werewolf’s jugular—something the young thief was more than willing to do.

  The sickening noise of flesh being torn from flesh was lost to all but the two women as the rest of the party battled the other beast, but it was there and Viconia felt a surge of joy hearing it.  They had been hunted, stalked at every turn, deceived by wolves in human skin from the second they had washed ashore on that godsforsaken isle—now it was time for Viconia to experience the catharsis that came with finishing the job.  The beast thrashed in its death, arms thumping through furniture and making holes in the paneled floor—every head swiveled to take in the death of the chieftain—only the apprentice now remained, he would not be long in joining his master in death.  The werewolves dealt with, the party rested to take stock of the damage. The blood pooled and began to disappear, slipping below the floorboards.

  The thought came to the priestess in a flash, “ _Amyr!”_  Viconia went to Amyr’s side, the human’s dire situation forgotten during the intense fight, and whispered soft entreaties to her goddess to grant her power over life and death.  The healing dark spread from her fingertips to seep deep below the rich, caramel skin as the drow bent her arts to healing the many wounds covering the other woman’s torso. She was surprised, unsettled even, when Amyr stirred and began to rise so soon after Viconia had begun.  The bard clutched her chest as the claw marks knitted themselves together and winced, it had hurt after all. Her eyes met the gaze of wonderment in Viconia’s and something clicked in Amyr’s brain. She pretended to be more hurt than she really was, a hurried gambit to allay suspicion, but it was too late—the pale priestess knew what she had seen was real.

  It was far into the night when they reached the Elfsong Tavern—their base within Baldur’s Gate.  Like always, the smoky atmosphere was warm and inviting with a smattering of patrons even at such a early hour, everyone breathed out a sigh of pent-up relief when they stepped inside its cozy interior.  Finally safe, the tired party were more than willing to simply turn in for the night, all save one. Viconia had to know—for her own safety and piece of mind—about Amyr.  She snuck into their leader’s room through the disturbingly unlocked window—like she didn’t have a care in the world, or was expecting a late night intrusion.  Someone else might not have seen the difference in the bed but Viconia was a drow—her night vision was second to none—so the pillows convincingly placed to look like a body clued her in immediately.  “Shhh.” It was Amyr, finger pressed to her lips like a thief in the night

    “You know, don’t you?  You know what I am now…”  It was almost as if the human woman sounded remorseful to Viconia’s ears.

        “Maybe I do, maybe I do not.  I know something is amiss so why not tell me what, exactly, you mean by that.”

    “I…  I’ve _Become_ …  When we were on the island I-I was…  Bitten. It feels like there’s a caged animal trying to get out through my skin and it s-scares me and excites me at the same time?!”  It was less a question and more an exclamation “I-I don’t…”

        “Are you in control of your bestial nature?”  The drow words were clipped and to the point

    “Yes, mostly.  After the first time on the boat…”  Her eyes lit up with the light of the setting moon as her mouth moved at lightning speed “I swear I didn’t do anything!  I nearly went mad with hunger but, luckily, enough of me was in control so I ate fish instead. Since the islanders could transform at will I-I think I should be able to as well…”  The other woman’s lips pursed in thought or annoyance—Amyr couldn’t tell—but after several seconds Viconia spoke

        “I will keep your secret.”  Amyr became rigid in surprise

    “Just like that?  I’m a danger to you and everyone around me and you _still_ won’t tell anyone?!?”  All she got was one word.

        “Yes.”

 

  Amyr’s arms wrapped around the slender frame as she wept in bewilderment, in joy.  “I-I won’t let you down!” The human cried “I’ll make sure I won’t become a danger to you or anyone else!”  For reasons Amyr was unable to fathom, Viconia let the bard cling to her body despite the crushing, supernaturally strong hug.  Moments passed into more moments, morphing into longer and longer self-contained eternities, as the scared adventurer—barely more than a child in Viconia’s eyes—clung to her new confidant.  Finally, it became too much, the ashen-skinned priestess forced the human off of her—her limit of physical intimacy had been reached.

    “We will need to conduct research.  I know little of lycanthropy save what my… peers told me, we must be cautious.”

        “I agree.  I wish I was able to return to Candlekeep, they would certainly have a lot of knowledge on werewolves which we sorely need…”  The drow nodded in agreement

    “We will have to be careful, Amyr, should you be discovered…  Both of us shall become the hunted then—not just me. We should conclude our business with the _rivvin_ Fist and be gone from here swiftly, a city is no place to train a wolf.”  Amyr shook her head as the emotions pumped through her veins alongside the curse.

        “I… You’re right.  We need to stop the Iron Throne but I can’t do it terrified of transforming against my will.  I’ll have us relocate to the Friendly Arm until we can figure this out.”

 

  The drow nodded her head in approval  “Good.” She turned to exit through her entrance but Amyr called out.

    “Thank you, for being here for me.  It’s nice to have someone I trust like you…”  Viconia was silent for a second before she scoffed, a gentle smile playing across the drow’s lips

        “We Drow have a word for ‘trust’, it does not mean anything pleasant.”

 

  “What’s the word then?”  The werewolf’s radiant eyes twinkled in the shining darkness.  The drow let out a laugh through her nose “The word is _abbil_.”  A smile, enticing and rich like fine chocolate, grew across the bard’s face

    “Well then, until tomorrow… _Abbil_.”

 

  For the first time in a lifetime, Viconia laughed—honestly, unabashedly laughed in her rich, velvet purr before her violet eyes met Amyr’s emeralds.

    “You are a queer one, Amyr!  I think I may yet come to enjoy traveling with a comedian such as yourself.”

 

  With that, the ashen-skinned woman left, danced across the rooftop to her own bed.  Each woman returned to her pillows to fall into the deep seat of dreams, clutching tight the feeling of ease they experienced whenever they were together.  Each would come to know, eventually, why they felt this closeness that crossed all boundaries, all reason, but that night the answer would not come. Their roads were still long, perilous—filled with bitter truths and close-kept secrets—but once they met each other at the crossroads nothing would come between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter:  
> "The climax quickly approaches, two children of Baal will clash for the first and last time. However there are rules to be followed, conspiracies to unveil, and such niceties require a more... solitary touch. A new, unlikely friendship is lit amidst the tempest raging around them but how long will their leader be gone on her skulduggery?"
> 
> Current associates:  
> Imoen  
> Jaheira & Khalid  
> Viconia  
> Minsc & Dynaheir  
> Branwen  
> Dorn  
> Neera
> 
> (Don't be afraid to go to sleep at night, Neera's magic will make everything ok...)


	4. To Trust Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Actors wait within the wings  
> on this dark and stormy night  
> evil doings are afoot  
> but safely out of ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While researching for this project I stumbled upon something interesting on the game's wiki, it said that Dynaheir respected Viconia... I have not, to my knowledge, come across that in-game but I thought it would be an interesting dynamic to explore in both the endgame of Baldur's Gate and the entirety of Siege of Dragonspear. So if you like tongue-twister English said in an incredibly clipped accent, look no further...

  She had died.  Her whole, sordid life had flashed before her eyes as the horrible  _ iblith _ had plunged his sword into her chest.  She had not been prepared to die then, even though her life had been nothing but preparing to die—she hadn’t even been able to fight back.  It had hurt so much, blood seeping out of the wound as her body lit on metaphysical, icy fire. The last thing she had seen was Amyr’s face—it’s mask of horror, rage, and loss was suddenly everything she ever cared about as her world dropped away.  Being thrust into a conspiracy is one thing, being killed by it is another. She had been lucky, in a way, that her companions—Viconia refused to say “friends”—had managed to break out of the Flaming Fist’s compound as soon as they did. What little her soul remembered of the Fugue Plane was abysmal and even the thought that Loth could have plucked her up then and there sent shivers down her spine.  Amyr had found her somewhere and bodily carried her all the way through tunnels and crowded streets to the Temple of Tymora and begged, pleaded really, for them to heal Viconia… 

  Viconia shook her head, what mattered now was that she was alive and not what would have happened if she wasn’t.  More importantly, she was alive and the bastard who killed her would  _ pay _ .  Her drink tasted bitter in her mouth as she swirled her mug back and forth, what little time she had spent as an adventurer had been chalk full of action but now waiting was the game she was forced to play.  Such downtime ill suited such a paranoid woman as Viconia, no matter how safe her location was. The Elfsong Tavern was quieter than she had ever seen it, every patron stoic and mirthless as if a heavy weight pressed on their minds, it got to her.  

  The city was on a knife’s edge, teetering between all-out war and civil revolt, and everyone was feeling just how precarious their existence was.  No one had conspicuously fled just yet but Viconia knew about such rats, the ones found in Baldur’s Gate were already abandoning the crumbling House.  It brought back memories of Menzoberranzan, her emotions sliding into the familiar grove recollections of that city funneled them into—dark, unpleasant ones that made her skin crawl and her ears hear the chitter of spiders.   _ “Get a hold of yourself, Viconia, there’s-wait, did I…”  _

  Another drink landed loudly next to Viconia’s as a bronze woman scooted, uninvited, next to her.  “Is thy drink not to thy liking Viconia?” Dynaheir, the witch-companion of the ranger Minsc, slid uncomfortably close to the lone drow.

    “No?  Yes? I do not know.”

        “Then let me drink with thee, friend, and drown thy sorrows with laughter.”  The woman was sincere and commanding, Viconia didn’t even get the chance to muster a counter before the witch carried on  “We hath gotten less chance than I would liketh to speak, thou and I. I wish to get to know thee better, if thou woulds’t consent.”  The Drow paused and weighed her options while her brain unraveled the speaker’s odd tongue—she had a sinking feeling this woman would not go away if asked. 

    “Fine then, let us speak.  I know you are from this place, what is it you call it?  Ra-shem-ee?” The human woman laughed, hearty and fruity like surface-wine  

        “Rasheman, my good woman, the place I hail from is called Rasheman.  ‘Tis a beautiful land, one filled with the spirits of all things. Nature at harmony with itself.”

    “It sounds quaint.”  The drow quipped, a little bored but realizing how thankful she was for the distraction.  Dynaheir looked surprised

        “Truly?  Thou thinkest so?  As a Rashemi I must protest, ‘tis anything  _ but  _ quaint!  Dost thou remember that despicable man, Edwin, who accosted us some time back?”  The drow shrugged non-committedly “He is one of the Red Wizards, a most vile sect of mages who experiment on those they wish and kill others for the sport of it.  Truly, such conniving nature and vile politicking as they practice are the only things restraining the full force of their machinations upon this world.” Viconia chuckled as the woman finished.

    “I know a thing or two about the treacherous seas of politicking. It is the same with the Drow, always squabbling and killing in the dark while the Matrons watch on in glee.  They disgust me.” This admission gave Dynaheir pause, she mulled Viconia’s statement over a swig of her drink.

        “To be a Drow” The young Wychlaren contemplated “Is to be like a child, scared in her bed.  One fears the dark, fears what monsters lie within, and must become strong else they be swallowed whole by it.  Thou art alone in this world, even surrounded by others like thee, and naught can be trusted. I am not wrong, no?”

 

  The drow priestess’s eyes widened in shock, the candor of the Wych’s statement causing feelings and thoughts to align with this new insight.  As if a hundred and more years of life and teaching were for nothing in the face of such an evaluation. She hid such emotions behind her sculpted face as she pretended to ponder such thoughts.

    “Your thoughts are.. Intriguing.  If I did not know better I would think you a seer, even with your age as it is…”  The young woman bristled slightly at the word “age” and changed the subject

        “Thou saideth ‘Matrons’ did thy not? ‘Tis rare to see such matriarchy here upon the surface-realms.  The Rashemi are one of few cultures I know of who hath come to such a revelation.”

    “Hah.  It is true that surfacers seem to lack the innate knowledge of woman’s place over man.  Men cannot handle power as they cannot handle their phallus—they flap in the wind like the useless meat they secretly are without  _ proper  _ direction.”  Far from wholeheartedly agreeing with Viconia, Dynaheir seemed slightly disturbed by the drow’s statement, even as she blushed at the mention of male genitalia

        “Art thy menfolk treated with such scorn as you giveth them?  I agree that women hold power best but to go so far as ‘meat’?  T’would be like saying ‘better to bed a cow than love a man.’” The drow priestess broke into fits of laughter, thumping the table with her hand until it stung.

    “Dynaheir, you are quite the jester!  One does not ‘love’ a man any more than one ‘loves’ a woman with Drow!  Mates are all merely tools to be used and disposed of when their usefulness has run its course.  This surfacer concept of ‘love’ is something alien to us, even the love of our mothers is non-existent, let alone feeling such for a complete stranger.  Our word for it is a jest, something to mock and exploit in another, lesser drow. I will never ‘Love’ another, it is madness to think I could prostrate myself before someone like so.  The thought humiliates me.”

 

  The Wych was silent for a while, something in the answer Viconia gave unsatisfactory to the inexperienced woman.  Her cheeks had darkened slightly but went unnoticed in the dim lighting of the tavern. Finally she spoke.

    “Maybe so, but I doubt thy claim.  To love is to exist, even if it be perverted and twisted by ill intent, ‘tis still love.  Thou shall find love, True Love, I am certain of such, even if it must come from odd places.”

        “I think you mean lust, girl.  To  _ lust  _ is to exist, not love.  All mortals are fueled by such a desire, even you, and those who claim it as ‘love’ are mere fools not worthy of power.”

 

  The Wych did not press the point further, there would be no point—Viconia had lived too long in such an environment, only time and a better life could change her view.  As Viconia stared into her murky mug of surface-swill some part of her began to argue. All her life she had been taught that trust—and therefore love—were abhorrent, things that lead only to death and ruin.  It was something her mother had proven to her in ways that made the pit of her stomach churn with acidic bile, the wounds on her back ached in empathy. Yet here she was, talking with a travelling companion she knew little about and following,  _ following _ , a woman she had known for little over a month into death and constant danger.  That part of her—the tiny, little part she had to beat into submission every time her life felt even a little at peace so she would’t miss such things when they turned against her—told her that these two were good people, individuals she could entrust with her life and more, ones who would not abandon her.  

  What’s more, the two other women trusted her,  _ her  _ of all people!  Of all the manipulative, backstabbing whores to entrust their very life to, they chose Viconia.  Not once had she been sent away since being saved from the Flaming Fist, not once was she told she could not go somewhere or that she was not allowed to leave and set out on her own again.  Even her spying, watching for signs of treachery against her, were met with acceptance and a desire to understand. Amyr had even opened herself, revealed a secret Viconia could easily exploit, without even considering the possibility of that—like she knew that Viconia would keep it.  Her head hurt.

  Any more musings on the deep mysteries of life were cut off as the entrance banged open—letting in the wind and rain.  A cloaked figure, water cascading down their oilskin to pool by their boots, strode into the room with angry purpose. Viconia was alert, senses wired for danger and eyes nervously scanning the stunned room.  The figure dropped coins on the bar counter then, transaction complete, began moving at speed towards Viconia’s shadowy table. The androgynous figure slammed their frothing mug upon the wood before sliding in on the other side of the drow and shucking their hood.  Amyr’s dark hair was glossy with sweat and rain, her mouth panting heavily as if just completing a long sprint. The human bard turned towards the pair of intrigued women and smiled her pearly grin, radiant like the moon

    “Have I got a story to tell you!”

 

  The night had only just begun.  Soon the culmination of all the intrigue, all the shadows and masks, would be ripped off as Amyr faced her half-brother in the temple of their dead father, Baal.  Her companions, people she considered friends, would stand against Sarevok with her. Their triumph would be sweet and ephemeral, the troubles to come would be like a tornado as it swept up the bard and all who walked with her into its vortex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the first batch of chapters. The next batch will be covering Siege of Dragonspear and will be released when done (there won't be a ton, maybe three stories initially? Really, I'm not changing much 'actual plot' wise, I'm just adding in new/revamped scenes and one emotional roller coaster of a relationship...). I think I will most likely revisit Baldur's Gate 1 in the future to add in other scenes and interactions to flesh out Amyr and/or her companion more. Those will be released whenever finished, rather than in batches.
> 
> Next Chapter: To be continued...
> 
> Final BG1 roster:  
> Amyr--Bard (IWD rules because Bard Song is dope in that)  
> Imoen--Thief/Mage  
> Jaheira & Khalid--Druid/Fighter and Fighter  
> Viconia--Acolyte of Shar kit (custom kit, akin to the Priest of Lathandar kit really)  
> Minsc & Dynaheir--Invoker kit and Ranger  
> Branwen--Priest of Tempus kit  
> Dorn--Blackguard kit  
> Neera--Wild Mage kit


	5. Hunted, Hunting, Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arise my love,  
> the fairest of Moons  
> for a-hunting time is nigh.  
> While our Actors sleep neath woodland creep  
> a wolf's job it is  
> to slay baser beasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come one! Come all! Now is the time to feast!  
> We start our journey towards Dragonspear with some time alone, and a momentous moment. I honestly wanted to do more with the whole "werewolf vs. vampire" thing but since I want this to fit as seamlessly into the as-is game as possible I will leave the absolute slaughter of tons of vampires by an angry lesbian werewolf for next game... Heheheh...

  The underbrush swept sibilantly across her thighs, heavy pants and occasional gulp the only other audible signs that she was there.  Patience is a virtue, one every hunter learns to master; she was no exception, her instincts saw to that.  Beady, moonlit eyes scanned the surroundings as her tender nose sniffed out her monstrous prey.  Hard enough to find the scent of a dead man walking, the vampire she stalked left almost no trace of his earthly passing—but her nose told her that there  _ was _ a scent, however faint.  It had been ill-advised, she realized, to lure the monster out at night  _ Amyr need to study-track prey, won’t try  _ this _ again…   _ Her well-endowed snout wriggled as the scent came to her again, stronger and more pungent.

_ Calm calm, patience, calm.  Sniff-search, make sure prey hasn’t left nasty surprises for Amyr, no no. _

 

  The trees thinned as the hulking hunter strode towards her target’s lair.  The cave in which he lay was partway up a hill, dug into its side from centuries of weather and chance—the most indefensible kind of hidey-hole.  Even the underbrush of the forest did nothing to disguise the cave; the line of sight was clear up to its entrance from beyond the base of the hill.  She wasted no time thinking about such trivialities, not when the smell was getting crisp and clearer. 

_ Here.  Prey think him safe in dank-smell cave.  Amyr kill-kill foolish prey!  Much fun-sport, yeeessss… _

 

  Her claws glinted under the full moon—so bright and she wanted to howl at it  _ so _ much—as fingers flexed, clenching and unclenching in anticipation of bloodshed.  Her undead prey huddled in the obvious cave; she could smell it.  The look of terrified defiance covering his face was practically tangible with her acute senses.  It had not been a long hunt to be sure, but it was her first, she would remember it forever and ever.  Amyr grinned, slobber trickling down her lips.  The precautions taken—the traps and snares carefully embedded into the ground by the vampire—were meant for normal adventurers but she was  _ anything _ but normal.   _ Oh, the thrill! _  She had been made for this moment, for the thirst of the Hunt and meat as it was shredded from the bone, everything in the world made sense to her.   _ Silly prey, him can’t-won’t see Amyr coming, no…  _

 

  Her animalistic throat rumbled a rich subharmonic laugh—if she were not the owner of the giggle, she would have been terrified of it.  Lumbering legs skirt all too obvious traps as the great furred hunter calmly, quietly, made her way to the mouth of the cave.  It reeked of him—of must and long-dead skin, of fear and terror and duty, of the movements of players far beyond her human understanding—and of blood,  _ so much blood _ , that her mouth watered uncontrollably at the fresh meat.  Her prey had been there at least a few days, the carcasses of drained animals was evidence of this, not that she cared to wonder  _ why _ , only counted her blessings at such an easy hunt.  The monster was hiding in the depths of the cave, trying to trick stupid hunters into going for the casket instead—she was no fool.  Her figure eclipsed the moon, black fur now as dark as the Abyss as she towered above her sniveling prey.  The vampire Tsolak knew, now, that he was well and truly cornered; a lycanthrope was no simple mortal to be led astray and it didn’t need special weapons to kill him, it had claws.

  The werewolf sneered as she smelled her prey’s resignation,  _ fight-kill now!  Good prey, fight-die-struggle now…   _ Amyr did not leap forward to try and pin him, she simply stalked closer with a sway not unlike a lover coming to bed—any chance to escape would be by tooth and nail.  The vampire leaped, a  _ hisssss _ seeping out of his clenched teeth, trying to use his speed to get a good life-ending bite in.  She caught him mid fall, neck now firmly between her meaty fingers, and cackled her horse, throaty cackle.  She squeezed tighter and tighter—not that the undead man had any breath to give her—and in desperation Tsolak clawed ineffectually at her wrist and kicked out, finding furry flesh with his supernaturally strong leg.  Suddenly she wasn’t laughing any more.  The howl of pain as she clutched her chest reverberated endlessly throughout the cramped space, deafening them both.  Tsolak crumpled to the ground with a dainty ease.

  The cornered vampire bared his teeth at his foe, his hunter, for now was the time to strike!  Fangs sank into tough flesh as he searched, hungrily, for a vein to slake his lust upon.  She moaned—the kind better heard in red light districts and private rooms—as he tried to drink of her.  He didn’t even care about the fight anymore, her powerful blood, the most pungent odor to fill his mind in what felt like forever—already he was a blooddrunk mess, a wired junkie who’d found the nicest fix he’s had in several days.  Her neck proves too thick, to burly, for his devices so with unthinking movement leant towards her comparatively thin wrist.  If he hadn’t, he would have seen the smile curl on her flabby lips.

  A vampire like Tsolak cannot feel pain, per se, but they can feel when a giant claw impales them through the ribcage and spine.  His world narrowed to a point, fixated on the tantalizing wrist so close and yet so unobtainable, as the hunter’s claw dug deep into his chest.  Panic filled his drugged-out mind as she pulled him up and away from her succulently sweet elixir as it pumped so invitingly within her.  The tips of gleaming knives peaked out from his breast as the great beast lifted him up; that infuriating smug smile still hung on her lupine features.  Fresh blood spurted from his mouth as he became splayed out for all to see, his death mere moments away.  She giggled like a wolfish schoolgirl—her target was no predator after all, merely a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

  With a curt bark she snapped his spine, driving her claws to their hilts as she held his body supine to the hidden moon.  She smelled him

_ Prey yet live?  Amyr kill-dead prey, yes yes, so why scent still here?   _

 

  The body twitched on her hand, perhaps a reaction to its violent end or perhaps not, perhaps it held yet another secret.   _ Easy fix. _  Her bait-hand went for the head as her own pounded from the lust of the Hunt—soon it would be dead, and she could  _ feast _ .  Tsolak, almost bereft of all control over his body, made one last attempt to drink as she clasped her paw around his head, his fangs could not go far enough inside the thick skin to strike a vein, it was over.  

  She pulled as the vampire screamed wordless pleas and  _ ripped _ .  Flesh rent itself from flesh as the neck tore at the seems trying to stay together, this was too easy.  Parts of the spine cracked and snapped as she tore it from his body by the scalp, eager to offer her prize to the moon-goddess as thanks.  Even with the stone of the hill between them, she knew Selune accepted her offering as the sickening  _ crunch _ of bone echoed through the derelict lair.  Her thick hand cracked the vampire’s still conscious skull as his lips let out one final, reverberating scream.  She howled.

  When her ears finally stopped ringing, Amyr assessed her situation.  “Well, that was  _ delightful _ .”  The young woman said, her voice much quieter and more “human” than before.  She almost turned to leave before a lingering thought snapped to the forefront of her mind—she still had one thing left to do.  Finding the stake right where she left it on her belt, the dark-haired lycanthrope opened the wooden casket.  There, before her, was a peaceful face, one of serenity and free of worry like a sleeping babe.  He almost looked innocent. 

  She considered leaving it here, claiming the job was done without finishing the last—suddenly questionable—part, but that would be bad.  According to the hunters sitting in their camp, this monster had a long and bloody history behind him; she knew it would be wrong to let it go longer were it true.  The pointed piece of wood hung unerringly above the reformed vampire’s heart—the werewolf was glad she knew enough anatomy to know where that was at least.  Her other hand held the hammer that would pound out the dirge of Tsolak’s final respite, here in this ignoble burial mound, and she lifted it to strike.

  His eyes snapped wide open and she jumped, trying to transform again into her wolfen form but she was spent.  The pit of her stomach told her she could not become the beast for a while longer but something else, something baser, whispered that she  _ could, _ and it would be glorious to give into it…  Her pounding heart raced and something itched under her skin, a power far beyond mortality yet achingly familiar—as if from a dream, half-remembered, or a far-off memory.  Her stomach growled, breaking the insane reverie as it pounded in her head.  She pierced the vampire’s breast.

  
  Something has stirred within the Baalspawn’s soul, something  _ evil _ .  She does not know it now, but her very existence has become endangered, the cause her very parentage.  Much now rides on this “Hero’s” shoulders—the hopes and expectations of the people around her, the lives of her friends, the very fate of the Sword Coast—but can she bear it?  Will she try to keep these hidden “truths” that others think define a person on her shoulders alone until she is crushed by them?  Or will her budding relationships give her a different way to carry her burden in to the murky and uncertain future?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter:  
> "It is time for an important conversation take place, after all this time. Not a welcome one, to be sure, but secrets poorly buried can only beg to be dug up. Let us test the bounds of friendship still only newborn."
> 
> Current Roster:  
> Dynaheir & Minsc  
> Safana  
> Viconia  
> Glint  
> Corwin
> 
> and, of course, Edwin...
> 
> (Oh, of course, put me on the sidelines won't you, *grumble* Never forget that it is I, Edwin Odesseiron, the best Wizard in all of Thay, who carries this group!)


	6. Unwanted Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arise my love  
> The fairest of loves  
> The ugliest of revelations  
> Unrequited, thy may be, under sighing tree  
> But in my bosom findeth unknown peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, unrequited love, bane of Romantic heroes and villains both! It’s my least favorite kind of love and the kind I seem to find than anything else… I am a little sorry that I’m intentionally adding insult to injury here, but I feel like having this unwitting not-love triangle will bring more punch to a (canonically) rather flat emotional moment later on. Cheerio!

  The contingent of soldiers from Baldur’s Gate had made camp just shy of the main road, posting up south of the Boreskyr Bridge and the fires of war around it.  For some reason Amyr had volunteered herself for a reconnaissance mission into the besieged town and had left with Jaheira an hour before supper, leaving the rest of her companions behind.  Near the edge of camp Viconia tended to her supplies, making sure nothing was stolen as her hind brain was wont to suspect.  “Hail and well met my friend!”  Turning her head, Viconia’s laconic drawl almost sounded cold

    “Yes Dynaheir?  Do you have need of me?”  

        “Is that how thy address one of the two finest friends thou shalt ever have for as long as thy live?  If I hadst not known better, I would think thee a misanthrope and I a fool for misanthroping thee!”  Both her laugh and joke were left hanging, limply, in the air.

    “What do you mean ‘one of two’?  I will humor your misconception and ask who you deludedly think is the _other_ one?”  With a knowing look, Dynaheir answered her friend’s question

        “Why, our leader Amyr of course.  Or is there something…  More, twixt thyself and she?”

 

  Her cockish smile unnerved the drow as a few slivers of thought made themselves known, unbidden, from the deepest reaches of her subconscious.  She felt an odd, clinical understanding of the innuendo present and yet could not discern the reason Dynaheir would say, or assume, that such was the case.   She knew the wych well enough, had spent enough time in her rather pleasant company to know the young human’s gay and japish nature that lay, concealed, beneath her serious forehead, but this seemed different.  The priestess narrowed her eyes at the other woman

    “What are you implying Dynaheir?  Tell me plainly lest I pry it out of you!”

        “Ohohoho” the minxy spell-slinger crooned as she arced yet another foxy grin towards the priestess “Dost thou not seeth the way she hath slipped the odd peep at thee?  Or how thy hath, on occasion, looked her way with passion in thine eye?  Thou art a woman grown, dear Viconia, surely thy time has not _always_ been spent fantasizing about spiders…”  Her words turn into laughter as she dances away from the drow, growing a little closer to the lip of a natural ditch just past the perimeter of the camp.

 

  “I do not, nor ever have, fantasized about spiders!”  The playfully furious woman pretended to seethe with more violence than she felt “Now tell me ‘dear friend’ exactly what it is you mean by that statement!”  She launched up to give chase to the other woman, trying to keep her own laughter in check lest the facade be forever ruined.  She cornered the Rashemi wych at the lip of the tiny slope, her eyes glinting with glee as the rain pattered off cloth, tarp and exposed skin.

    “Tell me, dear Viconia” The earthly-toned human began, as if blind to her situation “art thou so unused to attraction that thou hast become oblivious to its wiles?  Surely even the Drow have such a universal urge as that.”  The drow fixed her with a mocking, quizzical stare; she shook her head

        “Oh Dynaheir, you are such a young, naive fool.”  The wych pouted at the willful mention of her age “It is not a matter of urges or perception.  If I were to want for a man I would go out and take him, simple as that.”

    “Really?  If it as easy as thou sayeth then why hath thou not so simply ‘taken’ our leader in such a manner?”  A snort like a pig left the drow’s nose

        “Hah!  I have no interest in her.  I require a _man’s_ services to satisfy such cravings.”  

 

  Dynaheir could practically see the lust clouding her friend’s undoubtedly lewd imagination and she bit back a retort.  Her face uncontrollably shuddered with revulsion as Viconia began to fondle an imaginary man’s balls, it was almost too much “So thou hath never felt the touch of womankind before?”  Something about her voice felt off to Viconia, like she was holding her breath or something.

    “Why would I?”  The drow’s words took on a rather dismissive air “Women are not as equipped as men are, it makes no sense to seek out the company of someone unable to satisfy me.  If I were a man I would most certainly do so, but I am not nor do I have any desire to lower myself just to be one, however strong such curiosity might take me.”

 

  The pale priestess saw something sag within her companion and yet—as if gifted divine inspiration by the Gods—the wych looked up to fix her impassioned gaze upon Viconia.  Before the priestess could defend herself, Dynaheir laughed and pulled the drow into a grapple then followed her momentum down.  The two women rolled, tumbled in the sticky wet grass—their shape imitating an abomination of flesh and limb.  It was as if the wych had lost all sense of rationality, even her laugh was wild with reckless abandon.  Viconia’s mind struggled to catch up as the couple came to a halt in a heap a decent amount away from the lip.

  Viconia felt hot breath steaming against her cold, rain-soaked skin.  She felt the heady warmth of something cupped in her hand, pleasantly soft and full.  It felt…. She did no quite process _how_ it felt, only that it was good, but a soft moan of a kind she herself made in the dead of night told her enough.  Like a snake recoiling from a stick Viconia dove away from their unwitting union, grasping the offending hand with its co-conspirator as her eyes widened in shock and incomprehension.  Dynaheir—her real life, truest _friend_ —only looked at the startled woman with quivering eyes, any tears lost in the rain.

 _“What did I just do?  What was it that I grabbed—her Bosom?  Her Buttocks?  It did not feel like a butt, although I suppose a woman’s is different from a man’s…”_ She fondled her own assets briefly, checking to see if they matched “ _They felt so…  Different from mine, as if I was grasping the most fantastic pillow…  NO!  How can I think such thoughts?!  And about Dynaheir of all people!  She must be so mortified now; I have to say something or else she will never speak to me again!”_

    “I am sorry Dynaheir.  I did not mean to grab you so…”

 

  Far from the look of betrayal she was expecting, Dynaheir’s face seemed only to keep its forlorn features after hearing her friend’s hasty apology.  Viconia just didn’t get it, refused to acknowledge what her eyes told her, and it made the young woman’s heart flutter into silence.  A punctuating thought crossed Dynaheir’s mind _“So that is how it is…”_  The bronze woman knew what terrible thing she must do.  Composing her face into something cheerier, she met the drow’s manic pupils and smiled

    “Think nothing of it, my friend.  I know thy actions were without intention—I am sure I, too, grabbed something inappropriate of yours by mistake.  I prithee, put this behind us as I have, and do not hold such regrets against yourself.”  Viconia was at a loss

        “I…  Thank you, Dynaheir.  It was an accident, nothing more.”  She stood and reached a dripping hand towards her friend, inviting the radiant woman to join her on two feet.

 

  The words stung like the silent tears slipping down her falsely bright lips, hidden within the falling crowd.  

  


  Dynaheir had saved her friendship, but at what cost?  The poor, besotted woman understood, now, that the looks Viconia had given her were false—much like the ones she had fabricated about their leader.  The two rose, each lost in their own thoughts, and walked together in silence back towards camp.  It is hard to feel such one-sided attractions as this, to know the love you bear someone will never be reciprocated.  What could have been, if this not-confession had played out differently? Would another scar upon Viconia’s soul still be present?  Or would she have left hers alongside Dynaheir in Amyr’s heart?  Fate is cruel to this poor woman—lost in yet another unrequited love—for she would never live to know that, eventually, Viconia could have realized she loved her too.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter:  
> “Out of the frying pan and into the fire! Our brave fools have marched all this way, only to be met by twice-fold more fools! Now all they can do is sit and wait for people with impressive titles to decide marching orders. At least there is enough excitement and intrigue around camp to keep such seasoned adventurers occupied in the meantime.”
> 
> Current Roster:  
> Dynaheir & Minsc  
> Safana  
> Viconia  
> Glint  
> Corwin  
> M’kiin  
> Baeloth  
> Rasaad  
> Jaheira  
> Voghiln 
> 
> and , of course, Edwin…
> 
> (Beware that runty Gnome, his smile is too sexy… Bah!)


	7. Different Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arise my love  
> Oh dearest one  
> Let such admittance seep deep  
> Into thee  
> These Actors moon, in awkward pantomimes  
> That truth  
> Never as obvious as we'd like it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember being somewhat surprised while playing Siege of Dragonspear when Viconia tried to flirt with Minsc right off the bat. Not that I didn't expect it, per se, she is Viconia after all—men are kind of her thing in the game—but Minsc of all people? Oh sure, she derides him for being an oaf the moment he offhandedly rebuffs her but it kind of comes out of left field (at least for me. Maybe there's something in BG2 that makes this make more sense) and it made me just feel like our dear Vikki was just reeeeeeally horny at the time... Whether that's a bad on the writers' part or not I can't say, I've not played this enough times to hear all of the dialogue, but the image of Viconia feeling secure enough to lust after her companions and not fear getting shanked for it is kind of appealing...  
> Also the idea that she keeps on falling for people who's personality turns her the heck off (looking at you, Dorn, ya minx), that's really funny to me. XD

_ “Why am I even here?” _

 

  Silly excuses and idle musings bickered amongst themselves inside Viconia’s brain.  Like the hustle and bustle around the drow priestess, her mind was utter chaos. It had been less than a day in the cramped tent-city and already she felt like the world would explode from the movement; even Baldur's Gate, filled with refugees, was not this bad.  The noise wasn’t even the thing that truly bothered her—she was used to noise—it was the smell.  The first time she got a whiff of the massive camp her composure had slipped, gagging tongue giving voice to thought 

    “Pig.  It has to be pig.”

 

  The overlapping of different scents was indescribable in its entirety but the stench of unwashed feet, festering wounds, trees in bloom, sex and yes, pig, serve as a taste of the greater whole.  Viconia had smelled many things during her times both above and below the surface but this, she knew, would harass her no matter what she did for the rest of her long, long life.

  Someone nudged her—an elbow playfully inserted in between her ribs—and Viconia turned her gaze to meet her companion’s.  The brown-skinned bard pinched her nose dramatically, making a gross face to indicate her extreme distaste for all things olfactory.  She attempted to disguise her mirth, turning her head and rolling her eyes in false annoyance, but Amyr had known her for what felt like forever, she knew how Viconia ticked.  They were exhausted—both mentally and physically—everyone was and marching into the disgusting mishmash that was the “Coalition” camp only served to wear them out more.  Even being in sight of their ultimate goal after such an arduous journey was disheartening; the dark, foreboding architecture of the rundown castle loomed over the surrounding forest, the skeletal dragon that gave Dragonspear its name looking out as if surveying its hoard.

  “You are impossible.”  Viconia tried to return to her assigned task healing the innumerable wounded, but she couldn’t even muster up the energy to pretend to care.  She gave up, leaned back, and raised her arms to the heavens to work out the kinks.  Her slender, toned back collided with Amyr’s making the drow jump; she had endured enough, she was done.

    Viconia huffed “Must we stay in this…  Infernal camp?  Surely there are better places than this.”  Amyr looked at her companion and barked out a parched laugh

        “And leave behind all the pickpockets, double agents and suspicious glares?  I thought you were starting to like humans!”  Viconia glared at the smug-faced woman.

    “Hah!  They have their uses, that much is true, but like?”  Her lips pouted and ruby eyes narrowed, her nostrils expelling air in a huff “I doubt I will ever come to ‘like’  _ rivvil _ such as these.”

 

  The reaction Amyr gave was not the one Viconia had expected.  Instead of laughing with her jest the bard simply shook her head with a sigh, as if Viconia herself had missed something important.  “You say that, Viconia, but I’ve seen where your eyes wander.” It wasn’t Amyr this time, the sultry tone of Safana—the rather seductive rogue working with them—spoke a little too close to Viconia’s ears for comfort.

    “I’ve seen the way you look at Minsc…  You  _ want _ him, don’t you.”  The drow glared at Safana and Amyr reeled back in mock scandal

        “Viconia!  What happened to ‘I’ll never like  _ rivvil _ ’ from a moment ago?!  Does your heart truly burn for…  _ Romance _ ?”  Amyr’s eyebrows wiggled as she drew out the word “Romance” into a throaty purr.

            “You are just as bad as she is, Amyr.”  The priestess’s words were as venom searing into flesh “Honestly, I do not know why I put up with you!  I take  _ one _ look at that bald barbarian oaf…  Come now, both of you have looked too, haven’t you?  Do not try to deny it.”  Safana’s eyes twinkled like gems under moonlight  

    “Well, I can’t say that I-”

        “Nope.”

 

  Amyr’s voice was flat, deadpan even, but something about it felt strange to Viconia.  Whatever either was going to say derailed as the two women gazed at Amyr with incredulity.  “Never?” Safana asked “Not once?”

    “Never.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like people with well-defined muscles as much as the next woman but he’s not really my type.”  

        Viconia leveled incredulous eyes at her leader “Why not take him for one night then?  Or perhaps that braggart, Dorn?  If something about a man bothers you then simply sleep with him once and be done with him in the morning.”  Amyr’s response was odd, halting.

    “Because that’s not the point?”   

        “Surfacers and their ‘morals’.”  The drow scoffed “Were we in Menzoberranzan you would have taken him and been done with that addle-brained hunk weeks ago.”  Amyr eyes were filled with weary disbelief

    “No, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t.”

        “You delude yourself.  Men exist to be used by us."  Viconia waved her hand dismissivly at nothing in particular "Their only goal in life is to serve their betters and why should they complain?  We treat them well, after all, for such service.”  Safana, rather than the fidgeting Amyr, was the one to respond to her speech.

            “Mmhm.  Well, while  _ I _ may not disagree with you, I think that is not what our dear Amyr means…”

        Amyr’s rich caramel skin darkened around her cheeks a little which confused Viconia slightly, given the context.  “I do not comprehend your meaning, thief. Care to elaborate without your coy games?”

 

  “Oh, I’m not one to gossip.”  The simpering rogue said, “Better to ask the woman herself.”  She winked and, with that, melted into the crowd; her hands already fondling someone’s pockets as she disappeared from sight.  Viconia was at a loss, the way surfacers interacted was still something of a mystery to her—she inexplicably sensed as if she were on a shaky ledge over some deep, dark chasm and it worried her.  She had looked into many an abyss and had not been afraid, why should this conversation be treated any different?  “Tell me, Amyr, what did that petty thief mean?”  The bard sighed before facing her friend

    “It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything, I don’t know why Safana—or me for that matter—were so indirect.  I prefer the company of women; men hold little interest for me.”  It seemed as though something didn’t quite click in the drow’s head

        “So?  You still lust for the touch of a man do you not?  It is not as if a woman could truly satisfy another in the same way as a man can, they simply are not equipped for such a task.”

 

  Amyr sighed yet again; she knew this would happen on some primal, instinctive level.  The brief time she had spent during her visit to Candlekeep before treachery utterly ruined her childhood had been instructional for the young woman.  The books she had perused on Drow culture had only covered generalities but it was enough to give her some insight on her mysterious friend’s views and behaviors.

    “I…  Don’t think you quite understand.  I  _ only _ like women; I don’t find menfolk an attractive prospect for me, sexually or romantically.  It’s kind of a recent discovery, honestly, but I know what I’m talking about.” Amyr was right, Viconia didn’t understand.

        “That is… Odd.  In truth, I do not know what to make of this.”  Something growing in Amyr’s face made the priestess backpedal “If you are concerned, do not be; I will still follow you, I continue to live because of you, but I still find this…  What is the word?”  She pondered for some time.

 

  “Abnormal?”  Amyr hid the tension in her voice with the skill of a trained thespian.

    “Perhaps, perhaps not” She furrowed her silvery brow as if the word did not feel right at all.  “It is… hard.  The surface is so different from the Underdark, I do not know anymore if everything I was taught still applies…”  Apprehension seemed to wash from Amyr’s body as she reached a hand to touch the drow’s shoulder 

        “I think I can relate, at least on some level.  Life outside of Candlekeep is still somewhat strange, even if my culture shock is nothing compared to yours.”

 

  The drow met the human’s eyes “I-” She was cut off, the suddenly panicked form of Safana had once again nestled herself between the two women’s shoulders.  Her voice sweated urgency and unrest

    “We have a problem.  Under normal circumstances, I would never say this, but…  I could use some help.”

 

  Neither would have much chance to continue this talk.  Both were now waist deep in the fiery vortex that was Caelar Argent’s crusade into the Nine Hells.  By its conclusion neither would be in any position to leisurely discuss such trivial things as “feelings” or “attraction.”  For now, Viconia would continue believing much of what she was taught by the Drow’s misandrist society without thinking; but the ability to grow as a person means challenging their own ideals and seeing if they truly agree with them on their own.  Sadly, cruel machinations would pull these two apart for a time, but not forever.  Eventually, both women would be able to challenge the other’s ideas, walking hand in hand down the path to becoming an even better and stronger person.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: “Forces beyond mortal comprehension march their toy soldiers towards the inevitable conclusion. Long before her time, our hero must venture into the pits of Hell, a taste of things yet to come, to finish this bloody fight, but can she? After the death and destruction foisted upon her young shoulders, will she have the strength to carry out such a deed?”
> 
> Current Roster:  
> Dynaheir & Minsc  
> Safana  
> Viconia  
> Glint  
> Corwin  
> M’kiin  
> Baeloth  
> Rasaad  
> Jaheira & Khalid  
> Voghiln  
> Dorn  
> Neera
> 
> And, of course, Edwin...
> 
> (I do not understand it, how can such an inferior creature be so… so handsome! It confounds even me, Edwin Odesseiron, the smartest and most attractive Red Wizard! Surely there must be magic at work, but how…? Focus, Edwin, he is beneath me… Mmm, Yesss, Beneath me… Ack!)


	8. Undying Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arise my love  
> My dearest one  
> Do not lay down thy blade  
> Our fight is not won  
> Though nearly done  
> I hath need of ye more  
> Than e'er before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During my research while writing this chapter I went down a rabbit hole and found something absolutely bonkers. I don’t know about you, reader, but did you know that, since First Edition AD&D, the easiest way to cross the Planes in a group and with high accuracy is to use a tuning fork?! Because I didn't!  
> Granted, “Plane Shift” is a high level spell but that just means you need to find it as a scroll or get someone to cast it for you. It’s never been a ritual spell which means you can just cast it on the fly, no mumbo jumbo or anything! The fork’s metal will never be more expensive or rarer than platinum so all you need is your fork, the ability to cast the spell, and your towel and it’s Happy Hour across the Planes!  
> *Ahem* Sorry, I got a bit too excited.
> 
> I get that our buddy Hep the Prep used Baal-blood(eww) and the original portal used a human sacrifice but just think, our gang travels to Avernus and is greeted by the sound of a perfect F#...  
> Wizard.

  It screamed at them, incoherent yowling and moans caressed their ears like the harshest of mistresses.  For some reason, despite a literal Gate of the Nine Hells yawning before them, Viconia felt no fear.  Even as she stood, immobile, cursing that damnable Warlock and the clawing arms of the Damned binding her, all she felt was calm indifference towards her situation.  Some part of her pitied the foolish girl _“This is why you will never see an old Paladin”_ she mused lazily as the naughty _Faerie_ betrayer monologued about his “great and powerful Master.”  That very same part of her that pitied Caelar Argent saw this whole affair as a game

_“Opening a portal to Hell to free souls?  Who does that?!  Only the most idiotic fool would mess with such powers.”_

 

  Her other self—the one that sat back and coolly analyzed every single detail every second of every day—had to berate herself back into focus, _“This is not some game, the stakes are very much real, focus.”_  Yet, as Caelar fulfilled her archetype to the last by leading a doomed charge into Avernus itself, Viconia couldn’t stop the laugh that snorted out her nose.  Amyr, head twitching with the effort of overcoming her supernatural immobility, shot her friend a very pointed stare; the ever-jovial “Hero” did not seem amused in the slightest.  She, however, could not possibly have known of the horrors Viconia had experienced—a century and more of unspeakable terror in that cursed city deep beneath the ground—even the thought of such unending torment made this hellish mountain feel trivial.  It was a certainty the Sharran priestess felt she could take to the grave and beyond; a trust that would defy the Spider Queen and all her lackeys.

  She felt a shiver pass through her body, the spectral hands holding her turned to dust and faded away, she could move again.  A wicked grin stretched across the ashen-skinned priestess’s face as a fire rippled through her umbral eyes, each orb taking on a gleaming red sheen under the infernal lights.  Her weapons at the ready, the drow turned to her leader—her stalwart companion—awaiting the command to jump into the fiery hellmouth with all the exuberance of a human babe.  The look her fearless leader gave, however, was not the one Viconia had hoped for; doubt and second thoughts ran channels across her pretty, caramel face.

    “Amyr, what stays your hand?  We are prepared to see this to its rightful conclusion, to end this farce with a single, swift blow!  Something troubles you, dear leader, but what?”  Amyr said nothing, only looking down after the drow’s rather loud admonishment

        “Ja!  Worry not, Voghiln is here to pen the epic verse of our fight und bring the ale for everyone!  We shall celebrate our triumph atop the pile of Demon corpses!”

            “It’s Devils, Voghiln, not Demons.  Demons live in the Abyss; this is the Nine Hells we're stepping into.”  Her comment was so laconic as to be almost flippant

 

  Both Viconia and the Wych, Dynaheir, shared a meaningful look with the other behind Amyr’s back, each one silently appraising their close friend as she stared, dejectedly, towards the rippling Gate.  Ever since the attack on the Coalition camp, the usually cheery human woman held about her an air of despondency—barely even participating in the taking of the Castle proper despite their need for her guidance and voice.  Viconia had not gone to her then, she had been too busy fighting to notice, and she wondered whether doing so would have helped or if something deeper was at work.  The ashen woman moved to touch the bard, to try and see how she could help, but her sincere gesture was foiled when the large iron doors burst open with a _BANG!_

  The mighty boot of Mizhena impacted on the dirt of the ritual chamber’s floor as their remaining companions—loyal Captain Corwin, the gnome Glint, Neera the unpredictably destructive mage, the slippery spy Safana, Jaheira and her reluctant husband Khalid, the fool Rasaad, and even stoic M’Khiin—stormed in.  The Flaming Fist worked desperately to stop the party of ragtag adventurers from inadvertently letting any devils out but it was no use, they were handily overpowered.  Amyr snapped out of her malaise to stare in shock and horror at her companions

    “What the-!?”

        “No time for talk.  We need to end this quickly before they start pouring out in earnest!”  Corwin’s no-nonsense bark made the petite bard jump and her legs hustle unconsciously towards destiny

 

 

  Avernus was not quite what Viconia was expecting.  Oh sure, the fire was a given along with the hideous monsters but the slightly chilly air?  Her mind did not quite know how to parse that taken alongside the otherwise volcanic atmosphere.  The music of death and battle quickly overrode their nausea as the party discovered the remnants of the Shining Lady’s crusade.  A few brave souls held out against the tide of devils but their numbers dwindled with each passing moment. Amyr’s face was a crier for the thoughts racing inside her mind.

 _“I have to do something.  I can’t let more people die because of me…”_  

 

  Her legs, however, refused to move and the pit of her stomach sank even further into utter despair.  Someone bumped into the bard and she nearly keened; Viconia fixed the poor woman with stoic, meaningful eyes.  The drow’s intention was clear: action was required of the Hero of Baldur’s Gate; indecision would have to wait until it was all over.  She swallowed dry air down her suddenly cracked throat

    “Take heart!  Together we can win this, just hold the line!”

 

  Their objective clear, Amyr and her band charged with a mighty yell into the heart of the fray, fighting with the fury of ten men each, but even with their combined strength—the great magics called down upon the fiends, their well-placed arrows and deadly stabs—it was almost not enough.  The strongest of the devils—a temptingly seductive creature with huge bat wings and a ravenous, predatory glint in her eyes—broke through their line to wreak havoc with her fiery sword and frenzied yells.  To make matters worse, most of the men and a few of the women were affected by this devil’s unearthly beauty—Voghiln openly salivated and shuffled in his boots like a schoolboy with a crush—Viconia had to fight tooth and nail not to stare but she, too, stole a long, lusty glare at the bewitching temptress.  When her eyes flitted past Amyr, arousal clear on her face, the usually detached drow felt a snaking tendril of bile knot her guts in a tight ball and she reflexively snarled in disappointment.  Unfortunately, before Viconia had a chance for introspection upon her reactions, another slovenly devil took a swipe at her head, forcing the priestess to return her attention to the fight at hand.

  It was Dorn, unsurprisingly, who turned the tide; his demonic patron swelling and bolstering the half-orc’s powers to new heights as he cleaved devils by the handful.  The Blackguard was thigh high in corpses by the time he realized a she-devil had gotten past their lines.  With blinding speed the gigantic, abyssal warrior practically flew towards his new target, screaming all the way.  Viconia briefly questioned whether it was his hearty laugh or the smile of boyish glee that she hated most—she had to pull her eyes from him lest the very manly man’s muscles distract her as much as his adversary had.  Eldritch steel clashed on eldritch steel as the two proxies began their fateful duel.

  With a smile—a promise—on her lips, the exiled drow bashed her shadowy hammer into the skull of yet another imp; fortunately they just kept coming.

_“At least the bitch Loth will be unable to claim my soul were I to die here…”_

 

  Never before had Viconia felt so _alive_ ; her shoulders felt like an oppressive weight was lifted from them for the first time in her long life.  Nothing watched her, nothing waited to take her back into the Spider Queen’s unforgiving embrace; only the fiends before her would try and kill her here, it was liberating.  Caution thrown to the wind, the ash-toned woman called upon her Goddess to rain holy fire down upon her foes without thinking of the cost; her wish was readily granted.

  A tear in the fabric of reality opened like a grinning maw and searing tendrils of black fire threw themselves towards the molten ground; each lance indiscriminate in who they hit.  Friend and foe alike felt the whip of Shar’s displeasure as her priestess, for a brief moment, became her conduit in this nether realm.  One of the crusaders fell to the ground with a gurgled gasp and it dawned on the priestess that, perhaps, asking this of her Goddess was not a good idea after all.  Suddenly it was Amyr doubling over in pain as a spectral lance ran through her to embed itself in the craggy ground; Viconia’s composure snapped until only the thinnest thread held her entire psyche together.  Around them, the battle still raged on—Dorn had the succubus on her back foot, inching closer and closer to a pit of chilly lava—but she paid it no heed, nothing mattered anymore except Amyr.  She sagged by her leader, her energy utterly spent; the sight of the young caramel woman she admired lying motionless, face first, on the ground filled the drow with a terrible, urgent agony.

  “Oh Gods, oh Gods, do not be dead!”  Viconia practically wrung the young human like a dishrag.  She felt heat but that meant nothing, what was more important was she couldn’t sense any breath.

    “OW!  Ow, ow ow ow.  Viconia, stop. _Viconia!_ ”  The drow’s heart nearly stopped

        "Oh _Quar’valsharess!  Usstan quarth dos xuat jivvin xuil’ussa, khal’abbil, xor-usst’orn alartae’s elguth dos!”_

    Amyr’s face stung with the impact of the blows “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!  I’ll never do whatever it is you never want me to do again!”

        “A pox upon you and your father’s line!”  Even with the acidic tone and a final slap, Amyr couldn't help but laugh painfully

    “I think that’s a given!”

 

  The bard’s other cheek burned red as the distressed healer shakily stormed off to collect her discarded gear.  Amyr turned towards the remaining crusaders, the fear evident in their weary eyes as their many wounds showed through tattered armor.  Some part of her wished to lash out at the poor sods— _it is their fault, planning to use me to storm the very home of devils, after all_ —and nature fought nurture as words formed and die in her mouth.  She knew, ultimately, that a long battle awaited her; it would be worth nothing to expend any energy berating them now but she wanted to _so much_.  Her head ached as if it were splitting apart at the seams and her blood boiled under her skin; she felt a familiar, ferrous tasting liquid on her tongue.  She bit it, hard.

  
  
  As Amyr reaches the climax of this adventure, new facets of reality will make themselves known.  Not only will the Baalspawn taste _true_ power, but will begin her journey down the hard, tormented path laid out before her by forces beyond her understanding.  Heroes are never meant to be kept upon their pedestals for long… But what of Viconia?  Despite vehement denials something has awoken inside her, something she is unwilling to acknowledge as valid.  Only after going through more suffering, more abandonment, will she come to terms with such feelings and find the strength to face her internalized fears and embrace both herself and someone she loves madly, deeply, truly.  But as it is with all heroes, their work is not done, any rest is still a long way off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested (and don't want to try and parse out my rather "liberal" interpretation of Drow syntax plus find the Drow "dictionary" I found from 3e) the sentence Viconia says is:  
> “Oh Goddess(other than Loth)! I command you never to mess with me again, dearest comrade*, or I will whip you with a greater tentacle wand!”  
> *In this case Viconia means "comrade" rather than "friend". "Khal'abbil" translates literally to "my trusted friend." Our Vikki, however, means this sincerely rather than with the usual Drow "I hate love and friendship, I'm so edgy. Urrrrrrr..." You can bet Amyr doesn't know this however. ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Next Chapter:  
> “It has all lead to this. Every task boasted of as a ‘Quest’, every trivial ferryment between people, all the horrible things done in the name of ‘righteousness’ because all were in service to this moment. One final fight, one last death to close this thorny circle, and finally she can rest… Right?”
> 
> Final Roster:  
> Dynaheir & Minsc  
> Safana  
> Viconia  
> Glint  
> Corwin  
> M’Khiin  
> Rasaad  
> Jaheira & Khalid  
> Voghiln  
> Dorn  
> Neera
> 
> And, of course, Mizhena!
> 
> (Fret not, I am not dead, I am only… Yes, I am only off doing something even more important! Yes, that is completely it, totally… I am not a coward, I am the bravest Red Wizard who ever lived! Ehaha...)


	9. The Final Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arise my love  
> Oh terrible one  
> Death of all who would face him  
> Your glowing blade,  
> A chipp’ed scythe,  
> Let it strike down all who hath wronged  
> thee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, the end of Siege of Dragonspear (round one?). It’s been a rocky ride to be sure but worry not! It’ll only get worse from here on in… Mwahaha… … … Ahaha… 
> 
> I should also put in a bit of an apology for those dedicated few: So Hephernaan is not actually an elf, he's not even mortal according to the wiki. I guess when I saw him I immediately went "Oh look! Kael'thas!" Probably was the red armor and smug grin if I'm honest...  
> Anyways, the apology is for treating a rather petty lackey like he's an elf warlock rather than a Baatezu(D&D's fancy word for devil, because back in the 80's and 90's people thought D&D would turn people to Satan...) whatever-he-is. Honestly I don't know if either version makes him any cooler in my mind, I kind of find him lame in the right way.

  Caelar was a fool.  All that she worked for, all she believed, thrown away out of desperation as her fantasy burned like the fiery landscape around them.  Amyr had tried, really tried, to understand the fanatical woman, to find a way to resolve this madness without all the death that had already happened and all that yet would come

_“Nothing I did mattered, in the end…”_

 

  Caelar Argent, the Shining Lady, no longer shone as she stood before the black gates that concealed whatever her ultimate goal was; Amyr could not find the strength within her to feel sorry for her angelic counterpart in that moment.  It was over, they both knew that, but the foolish woman still _believed_ in her own righteousness even as she nearly sliced open one of her comrades for questioning her mad commands.  As the fiery paladin kicked open the doors to her own destruction a rage boiled up deep within the bard “No more shall die today.”  Her bitter lips pursed as tired feet moved to stop the soldiers, even if it was only one of them, from following the mad crusade to its inevitable conclusion.  A hand gripped her shoulder

    “They are not worth it, Amyr.  Let the fools throw themselves at their doomed errand, we may still yet live to see tomorrow.”  Viconia’s voice was filled with concern, rightfully so

        “I”  Amyr wondered, suddenly _“Why can’t I?  Just go, leave them to their fate, make sure no one can use this portal ever again…”_ But she knew the answer before she even thought it.  “I have to, _abbil_ , you know I do.  It’s what makes me lovable, right?”  The bard’s smile was like a sailor saying farewell to their home shores, knowing they are never to return.

 

  Viconia wanted to shout _“No!  That’s not why you’re loveable at all!”_  but for some reason the words won’t come.  On some level she held herself back, some part of her unable—or perhaps unwilling—to stop the woman she cares so much about from throwing her life away.  The darkest part of her mind, the part that never really left Mehoraberezzan, whispered in her ear

_“Do you really care for this rivvil?  She is a fool and one you do not need in your life.  You know you can only trust yourself after all, it has always been such.”_

 

  Viconia’s indecision spoke louder than any words, Amyr was already striding towards her fate and all the drow could do now was leave or follow.  Her comrades were quick to set pace with their leader—maybe their own internal battles were not as earth-shaking as the drow’s own—but two of them halted next to the immobile woman; black orbs peering deep into her soul as Dynaheir’s supple bronze hand met its ash-skinned companion.  As the Rashemi wych begged the Sharrite to join them her guardian, Minsc, kept his eyes peeled for more devils and other evils to be liberally kicked.  Wordless, the priestess let herself be led by her friend—the mind still unsure but the body knowing her true desires.

  


  They had come so far.  Through trickery and waves of nightmare fiends they had waded, through blood and viscera—some of it their own—the fourteen of them had persevered as the cramped elevator creaked slowly upwards towards the true mastermind of their recent sorrows.  While they had fought, Mizhena prayed; the Warpriest of Tempus implored her god to give each of them the strength to keep hold of victory against the machinations of their foe, even Viconia felt the energy slipping back into her overtaxed muscles.  There was no time to talk, to say final goodbyes or make stirring speeches, before the elevator creaked into place atop the wrought-iron tower.  Like others in the distance, the spire was made in the image of lava exploding out from its pool, channels and grooves in the latticework spiking up above the tower’s roof.  As the final shudder of the elevator stopped, the party saw they had front row seats for the final scene of their tragedy as it played out before them.

  The devil that towered above everyone wore a sneer reminiscent of Hephernaan’s, his pale elven lackey a maggot in comparison as they stood together over the broken body of a woman

    “Damn you…”

        Hephernaan’s laughter was as reedy as it was in Dragonspear  “Oh, silly girl…  You never even stood a chance against my Lord Belhifet.  Now know your place before him and beg for his mercy.”  In context, his robes looked completely at home in his master’s domain—Viconia idly wondered why Caelar never thought to notice it before.

    “I…”

 

  Belhifet’s laugh was deep, like the bellows of a forge, and sticky with malice.  

    “Child, Child.  You should never have come here.  You mock your uncle’s sacrifice with this venture, aasimar, but I am merciful.  I will grant your desires, after a fashion.”  The great devil bent at the knee to bring his grotesque face closer to hers “You shall once more be together your uncle; I will even keep your cage next to his.”

 

  Amyr couldn’t see the paladin’s face but her body spoke volumes, tension and hope playing out across her wingless back.  She wanted to cry out, to let the other woman know help had arrived, that they could still win, but her lips still refused to work properly.  With mock surprise in his voice the hulking devil turned his gaze towards the newcomers

    “The Baal-child.  Welcome, welcome!  You are just in time to witness the final fall of Caelar Argent!”  Amyr tried to move but an invisible force halted her at the edge of the elevator.

        “Caelar!”

    The devil laughed even louder “Do you want to know the secret of the ‘Shining Lady’s’ crusade, Baal-child?  For all her talk of saving the souls of those lost, there is only one that little Argent cared about,” he lifted one of his curved swords towards a cage dangling over the edge of the tower “her uncle, Aun Argent.  Poor, poor Caelar.  You never did tell anyone what happened that fateful day, so many years ago…”

            “No!  Don’t!”  Her cry was so unlike the voice that had accosted Amyr, had picked apart her decisions at every turn, it made the Hero of Baldur’s Gate grimace.

    “Tell them, child, tell them what you did to cause all this.  Go on…”

            “I…”  

 

  Like a puppet hoisted up on her strings the broken woman rose, without meaning, to her feet.  She fought with what little strength she had left within her, resisting to the last the role forced upon her by her captor.  All the party could do was stare now—whether out of sympathy, dispassionate curiosity or contempt—as their beaten and broken adversary shuffled to face her audience.  Her eyes, now bereft of the divine spark that nearly seared Amyr with their righteousness a lifetime ago, were wide and quivering, tears streaked down her suddenly childlike features.  It was as if all the command, all that made up the Shining Lady, was gone—her true form now naked and ashamed before all.  Amyr let out a tiny gasp between her teeth

_“She looks no older than me…”_

 

  Caelar’s mouth moved without her consent, her voice nothing but a conduit for someone else’s intentions

    “I…  When I was nine, I was a promising aspirant in the Order of the Aster.”  The words seemed to force themselves from her mouth, the effort of stopping them painful for the broken paladin.  “I was tasked…  Tasked with keeping watch over the Order’s library.  I-I-I was drawn towards one of the books, I wanted to learn—I thought I would be immune to its wiles.  The words spilled from my mouth and before I could think, I summoned Lord Belhifet.  He tried…  Tried to make a deal…  My uncle he-he,” her face became one of grotesque agony, “he sacrificed his soul to save mine.  I couldn’t, couldn’t save him.  Oh Gods…”

        “Caelar…”

 

  The traitorous advisor’s face filled with triumphant glee, watching the paladin squirm against such dark compulsions, and he openly reveled in her defiled nature as she spilled her worst secret to the only people who could still help her.  Her puppeteer smiled as he made her speak, Belhifet took such pleasure in this torture; it made the bard sick, and not only because of her own unwanted, sick enjoyment…

  Amyr felt the rush of arcane power swell around her, forcing such vile thought from her mind.  For once she was glad there was something preventing her from simply charging the fiend, it gave her allies the time they needed to buffer themselves with whispered incantations and fervently mumbled prayers; she hoped that Belhifet and Hephernaan were too caught up in their victory to detect them from behind the eldritch barrier.  Amyr made sure to keep her hands on the invisible wall that divided her friends from Caelar, wanting to know immediately when it wore off.  Such an opportunity would not come soon enough, however.

  The crimson mastermind stretched out one of his curved falchions towards the defeated paladin, his voice boomed with the sound of fire and brimstone

    “You would serve me, Caelar Argent, there is nothing left for you to be.  You have forsaken your vows to the Gods, your uncle, to yourself.  You have gathered a mob to desecrate your home, knowing it was for nothing.  You have seduced countless mortals to their eternal doom with honeyed lies and empty promises, claiming you held the ‘greater good’ to justify your desires.  Had I not known better I would have said you were my right hand already…”  Her face turned to meet Belhifet’s

        “I…”

            “Caelar!  Don’t believe his lies!”  Amyr slammed herself against the barrier, desperate to stop the madness “You can learn from this, live from this!  You just have to resist his temptation—he’s not right about you!”

        Soulless eyes—perceptible even at such distance—locked with the bard’s, perhaps for the last time.  “I…”  She cried; tearless shudders barely noticeable beneath the fiendish puppetry “I can’t…”

 

  Fire tinged with a sticky black shadow shot from the giant devil’s arm, snaking their way down under her skin and into every opening imaginable.  The fiery haired woman wailed as _power_ filled her empty shell—none of Amyr’s party could agree afterwards if they were cries of pain or of pleasure.  The fallen paladin levitated, her toes just shy of the ground, as her arms threw themselves out like she was being torn apart at the collar.  Amyr cursed the barrier once more, striking it with her axe, but nothing budged; only when the Shining Lady burst with the dying gasp of her eclipsed light did the magic crack and shatter into prismatic pieces.  The Hero of Baldur’s Gate fell on her face before the gathered audience hard enough to be heard.

  The darkly lit aasimar—or whatever she had become—floated down with the grace of a goddess until her feet touched solid obsidian.  Her face was beatific, comely even, but with the same sinister light that had only moments before engulfed her, empowered her.  Gone, now, was the Shining Lady and Amyr found herself thankful that only she and her friends would see Caelar Argent like this

 _“At least she will be spared the ordeal of a military trial like this.”_  

 

  In the holy woman’s place stood a hellish knight, her silver armor contrasting the darkness in her eyes, the flowing wine-red hair, the soulless gaze.  To a casual observer nothing might be different, but Caelar had become the very thing she fought so desperately against—a Blackguard.

  With dispassion better suited to snobbish royalty the reborn Argent surveyed the scene before her, a grin spilling from her lips across the pretty, sun-kissed face.  In one fluid motion she spun, whirling in an arc as her hand lifted one of her former companion’s claymore to drive it into Hephernaan’s skull.  The traitor elf screamed and clutched at the gushing incursion while his Lord laughed at such a scene, clashing his giant swords together in an ear-splitting mockery of clapping.  The Blackguard’s face was one of childish glee as she used the force of her new muscles to throw the dying warlock up into the air and down, down into the fiery pits to be torn apart and eaten by the ever-lurking imps.  Not even stopping, Caelar finished her motion to stand precisely where she started, looking knowingly into Amyr’s wide eyes

    “Come.  Let us finish this once and for all, Amyr.”

  


  Betrayal is a cruel mistress; she builds up fortresses that should never fall then unravels them like wool from a garment.  We shall leave them at the moment of truth, the place where two wills clash once and for all atop Belhifet’s spire.  One thing is certain, however;  Belhifet does not live to see the end of the tragedy he orchestrated.  Whatever epic struggle, whatever trickery or strategy imagined that accomplished such a feat, will remain illusory.  It is not meant to foil, but to enhance; a story is always better when some things are left unsaid, after all.  So fret not, while this may signal the end of this tale, it’s coda will herald a most shadowy sequel.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the second batch of chapters. Next batch will be spanning Shadows of Amn (although, perhaps, it may be broken up into two batches because I want to have a lot of these). I really want to do more with the SoD exclusive companions as well as Mizhena (since she’s given such short shrift in-game) so I’ll have to think some things up, maybe dive a little into some fun Black Pits adventures! Yuuum, Thay... As with BG1, any additional stories about Siege of Dragonspear will be released whenever I get around to them rather than in a batch, because reasons.
> 
> Next Chapter: To be continued...
> 
> Final SoD Roster:  
> Amyr--Skald kit (IWD rules)  
> Dynaheir & Minsc--Invoker kit and Ranger  
> Safana--Thief  
> Viconia--Acolyte of Shar kit  
> Glint--Cleric of Baravar kit  
> Corwin--Archer kit  
> M’Khiin--Shaman  
> Rasaad--Sun Soul Monk  
> Jaheira & Khalid--Druid/Fighter and Fighter  
> Vohgiln--Skald kit (IWD rules)  
> Dorn--Blackguard kit  
> Neera--Wild Mage kit  
> And, of course,  
> Mizhena--Priest of Tempus kit

**Author's Note:**

> The release schedule for this will be in occasional batches, I only do one major project at a time and this isn't one of them, but I will finish this project. For those lusting for sweet Viconia on Baalspawn (eventually steamy) romance I apologize that this will not be in any kind of timely manner—this may be my job but that doesn't mean I'm good at pumping out quality content in any form of quantity.  
> I would love comments, feedback and even an editorial pass if someone feels up for it—this work's current editor is its author which is less than desirable for me.
> 
> Your Author  
> -Izzi


End file.
